


Three Cubed

by anr



Category: Jake 2.0
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-28
Updated: 2007-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't help but count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Cubed

He kills four more people before his twenty-seventh birthday.

It takes his total count to seven and, okay, seven doesn't divide so well into twenty-seven but if he then multiples by pi, he ends up with twelve-eleven. Which was the time of day he was born at.

He no longer believes in coincidences; numbers don't lie.

  


* * *

  


Kyle takes him out for a drink after work and Diane comes to. He thinks Lou was also invited but her absence isn't surprising. He's pretty sure her, _good work, Jake_ , earlier today meant _happy birthday_ in Deputy Director-ese and, really, that was more than he'd been expecting anyway.

At the bar, Kyle insists on paying for the first two rounds, Diane for the third, but by the fourth they're both a little too relaxed and he's able to get his wallet out unchallenged. He buys three shots of tequila and wonders, not for the first time, what Darin would think of the person -- _spy_ \-- he's become.

Diane's arm brushes his as she tips back her shot, her tongue running over her bottom lip once it's down.

He orders another round.

  


* * *

  


They talk about normal things, things like where to get the best Thai food (Kyle swears by the _Sala Thai_ 's Gai Him Na Parn; Diane abstains on the basis she's more partial to Chinese) and the ten best sci-fi movies _ever_ (to his surprise, Diane's list matches his right down the best _scene_ in a sci-fi movie ever; Kyle calls them both geeks).

There's a clock behind the cash register on the bar, analogue and running eight minutes slow, and he can't help but focus on it, the steady drag of the second hand soothing under the grate of three dozen or more twenty-to-thirty-something year olds voices. When somebody cues up a quasi-ragtime number on the jukebox, the two-four beat regulates the noise even further and he can't resist telling the jukebox to replay the song after every fifth selection.

After the second repetition, Diane leans over, her hair whispering against his shoulder, and asks when he became a jazz fan and he smiles, and lies, and says he has no idea what she's talking about.

Her laughter's the best white noise of all.

  


* * *

  


His cell phone rings and it's Jerry, so he excuses himself from the table and moves outside where the noise is tolerable, the air fresher, and lets his brother rib him about turning another year older. There's the standard refrain of bad puns, and even worse pickup lines that Jerry says one can only truly score with on their birthday, and he ends the call when Jerry starts on his annual _Jake's most embarrassing birthday stories_ countdown.

Inside, Kyle has mostly migrated to the table next to theirs, a pretty brunette hanging off his every word, and Diane is checking her emails on her blackberry. He reclaims his seat beside her and subtly borrows her connection to check his own messages while she's too preoccupied to monitor it.

Sarah has sent him an online card, complete with neon lettering and a flashing animation, but the only personalisation is his capslocked name. He decides to reply later.

Diane puts her blackberry away before he can read the rest of his emails and slaps his wrist, eyebrow raised like she's daring him to defend himself.

He hides a grin and shrugs, looking away. He already knows he's not that brave.

  


* * *

  


If he wanted to, he could average the ages of all the people he's killed, minus seven from that number, and end up with twenty-seven.

He doesn't.

  


* * *

  


At some point Kyle merges their table with the one next door and their party of three jumps to nine. The brunette Kyle has been talking to is Claire, and then there's Steve, Muhammed, Lisa, Vienn and George, who immediately buys a couple pitchers of beer as soon as the introductions are completed. Diane sticks with the water she's been drinking ever since they finished their tequila shots, but he accepts the glass Steve offers him and soon he's discussing Adam Sandler movies with Lisa and Muhammed.

Diane excuses herself when the conversation drifts into zombie territory and while she's gone Kyle and Claire decide to leave, George and Steve following soon after. He tries not to watch the clock but thirteen minutes pass, then fifteen, sixteen and at seventeen minutes he can't help but start to worry. He doesn't want to use his nano-senses to check on her -- she'll have her JMD with her and a sudden spike in activity will only alarm her; not to mention the mere idea of it seems a little creepy -- so he's relieved when at nineteen minutes and twenty-three seconds she reappears in his line of sight. He watches her wind her way through the crowd until she's beside him again, her hip lightly touching his arm as she slips between him and the wall to get to her chair.

He smiles at her and loves that she doesn't even hesitate before returning the expression.

  


* * *

  


Muhammed leaves next, claiming something work-related the next day, and then there's just the four of them. He decides then and there that every birthday should end with him at a bar in the company of three beautiful women because, really, what else can top that?

The girls start telling jokes, each one more terrible than the last (both Darin and Jerry would be proud), until they're all breathless from laughter and Diane's hand is on his knee as her shoulders shake and she tries to contain her giggles.

Covering her hand with his own, it occurs to him that the night's not over yet.

  


* * *

  


He doesn't want to leave; likes it here with a clock that's eight minutes slow and a jukebox that plays pseudo-jazz every twenty-two minutes, Diane at his side, laughing and smiling and looking like every birthday present he ever could have wanted. She may not be his tonight, at least not in any claimable sense, but she's _with_ him so far as everyone else in this bar is concerned and that's more than enough. So, no, he doesn't want to leave but he knows that they have to. It's a Monday after all, a work night, and tomorrow they will need to save the world again, one nanite at a time.

They exchange email addresses with Lisa and Vienn -- or, at least, Diane does -- and take their leave. He's still holding her hand and her shoulder bumps his as they weave their way out of the bar. There's half a dozen taxis within his range of sight when they get out onto the street and he guides them into the closest one, leaving Diane to provide their destination.

She gives the driver her address, despite the fact that his is at least fourteen blocks closer, and he doesn't say anything because chivalry is not dead, not fatal, and it certainly won't hurt him if she wants him to escort her home.

  


* * *

  


Halfway to her place, Diane shifts and rests her head on his shoulder, and he concentrates on the glare of passing headlights and streetlights and the occasional neon signage because even without the nanites he thinks he'd be hyperaware of the scent of her shampoo and the warmth of her body against his.

He tries to plan what he's going to say when it's finally time to say goodbye because his daily quota of _stupid things to say and do_ is twenty-five and he's still only at eighteen (maybe nineteen, if he counts the peanut joke, but she had laughed when he told it, so) only the taxi slows to a stop before he can decide if, _I had a really good time tonight, thank you, goodnight_ , is enough.

Maybe he should mention something about seeing her tomorrow at work? Or would that be redundant, as well as stupid, considering how tomorrow's already a given?

Almost without his realising it, Diane has them out of the taxi and inside her building, walking down the hall that leads to her apartment, and he can't help but count their steps (twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six) because if he doesn't then he'll start working out how many years he's cheated the men and women he's killed out of (assuming they all would have otherwise lived to the current national average of seventy-seven-point-nine years) and --

"I had a really great time tonight," Diane says, startling him out of his thoughts. They're at her front door, her keys out and her free hand fiddling with her necklace. "Thank you."

He smiles at her. "That was going to be my line," he says. "Best birthday ever."

She grins back and for a moment the world narrows to this hallway, this _moment_ , just the two of them standing there, smiling.

Then she turns and inserts her key into the deadbolt lock, the sound of her keyring hitting the door handle jarring. He exhales a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding.

"Goodnight, Diane," he says to the curve of her profile, "thanks," and because he really _is_ stupid sometimes, "I'll see you tomor--"

Her hands are on his face before he's even aware she's turned, her body pressing against his as she leans up and kisses his words away, kisses him like she did that night in Philly when the only thing he knew for sure was the way she made him feel (okay, safe, wanted and _not alone_ ) and how he never wanted to _not_ know that feeling ever again.

He kisses her back.

  


* * *

  


There are twenty-one reasons _not_ to do this that spring instantly to mind as they make their way through her apartment (starting with, _you're my best friend_ , and ending with, _we were both drinking earlier tonight_ ) but as he lowers them to her bed, Diane's fingers are soft on his skin, grounding him in the _here_ and _now_.

He loses count.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/281910.html>


End file.
